


Don't Trust Me

by smallerontheoutside (theinvisiblequestion)



Series: Playlist [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3294146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvisiblequestion/pseuds/smallerontheoutside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy and Clarke meet in a bar; Finn tries to interrupt.</p><p>(Inspired by 3OH!3's song of the same name.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Trust Me

**Author's Note:**

> Featuring Lincoln, Bellamy, Miller, Jasper, and synth-man Monty as the boy band TonDC; Murphy as bouncer; and Monroe as bartender.

It’s impossibly loud in the club. The music—live, just like Raven promised—is shaking the little saplings in the sidewalk planters. The bored-looking bouncer takes one look at Clarke with her loose blond curls and her tight black dress, and lets her and Raven in. He doesn’t even ask for their IDs; if he had, Clarke would have flashed him a winning smile and the fake ID she’s been using since she was seventeen.

The multicolored lights dance through a haze of cigarette smoke and dry ice, glinting off of sweaty skin and over-styled hair. The band crammed onto the tiny stage call themselves TonDC. Their lead singer is shirtless, and his bare chest is covered with swirling, tribal-style tattoos. The guitarist has a leather jacket, left open, but no shirt, and his wild, dark hair is slightly limp with sweat. The bassist, with his half-smoked cigarette hanging from his mouth, is practically invisible in his black t-shirt, and the drummer’s only remarkable feature is the giant pair of flight goggles that he keeps shoving up on top of his head. All of them are sporting black warpaint. Clarke isn’t so into the tribal thing, but here, in the club, where she and her peers come to throw off the chains of society (or something like that; she hadn’t really been paying attention when Finn had started on his diatribe), it’s kind of hot.

She doesn’t join in the crowd of people on the dance floor; she prefers to watch them, and let herself drown quietly in the noise. She does order a drink, though, and admires the intricate braids on the girl who’s tending the bar. Raven jumps in with the crowd, moving among them with ease. When Clarke looks back up at the band between songs, the guitarist is staring at her. Maybe it’s just the warpaint, or maybe his eyes are dark as shadows, fixed on her as they are. She holds his gaze as long as he holds hers, until a complex riff forces him to look down at his fingers. Clarke lets the music wash over her until she’s finished her drink, and by then the band has set their instruments aside and someone has put one of their albums on the stereo.

“You don’t look like the fangirl type,” a deep, sultry voice murmurs in her ear.

Clarke turns, and the guitarist is leaning against the bar next to her, a mischievous grin on his face. “I’ve seen enough of them; I don’t need to be one,” she tells him. Raven appears at her elbow, looks the guitarist up and down, and nods to Clarke, a smirk on her face.

“Having fun?”

Clarke shrugs. “You?”

“Enough. You’re supposed to be forgetting about Finn, you know. That’s what post-breakup clubbing is for.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Go make out with the drummer or something. I can make my own poor choices, thanks.”

“Well, you _did_ date Finn.” Raven shrugs and vanishes into the crowd again.

“Your friend seems like the club type,” says the guitarist.

“Why are you so interested in everyone’s type?”

He arches an eyebrow and puts a hand to his ear. Clarke knows he can hear her well enough, but when he offers her a seat at his booth in the back corner, she accepts without hesitation, and not just because it’s getting loud at the bar.

She repeats her question when they’re seated.

“Just making conversation, princess.”

Clarke stiffens. “My name’s Clarke,” she corrects him.

“Bellamy.”

“What brings you to this neck of the woods? Other than your gimpy friend, of course.”

Clarke scowls. “ _Don’t_ call her that.”

Bellamy throws up his hands. “Whoa! Sorry. Just an observation. Didn’t mean to offend anyone.” The music gets louder, and he slides along the round bench seat until he’s almost touching her. “Can I get you a drink?” he asks.

“Might be a good place to start,” she says, but she’s already leaning into him. _How’s this for forgetting_? she thinks, and her mouth crashes onto Bellamy’s. He tastes like cigarettes and alcohol and something metallic, and his callused fingers are rough on her skin. She tangles her fingers in his hair and he pulls her into his lap, wrapping one arm around her waist.

It’s not like she hasn’t made out with guys before; it’s just that usually they’re on set, and it’s all for show. This is different. This is all raw hunger and hormones and dark corners, and maybe a little bit of anger. Finn is too nonchalant for something like this; he won’t even _go_ to a bar with her unless it’s a sports bar.

“Forget him,” a voice says, and she realizes it’s Bellamy’s voice, murmuring in her ear as his lips dance along her neck. “It’s just you and me, princess.”

It’s not hard to do, either, the way Bellamy’s hands and lips and tongue trail over her skin, and she forgets about Finn… until she moves to throw her hair out of the way of her mouth, and he’s standing at the table in his stupid jean jacket with his stupid arms crossed and a stupid scowl on his face. She glares at him, her arms still wrapped around Bellamy, and when Bellamy murmurs a question in her ear, she says, “No, just an ex-boyfriend.”

“Clarke,” Finn growls.

“Why don’t you take a fucking hike,” Clarke spits.

Finn’s eyes shift slightly, fixing on Bellamy. Clarke glances at Bellamy, too, and sees a lazy smirk playing on the guitarist’s painted face. “You heard the princess,” Bellamy says.

There’s another round of hard glaring, and then Finn storms off. “Two months, and he still thinks he’s got the right to have a beef with every other guy who even _looks_ at me.”

“Mm.” Bellamy tugs her chin down gently with his thumb, kisses her slowly, and then says, “Good thing I’m vegetarian.”


End file.
